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It's not easy to make a deal with the Devil. First, you have to find Him, and in order to find Him, you have to be lucky or know someone who knows Him. Me, I looked for Him for years. I looked for Him in all His earthly manifestations, in prisons, brothels, and bars, on porn sets and battlefields. I tried to summon Him through ritual and sin. I tried to lead a life of piety, hoping to tempt Him into tempting me. And in spite of all my searching, when I finally met the Devil it was either through Chance or Fate, depending on how you frame it all when it comes to luck.
And so maybe it's luck that's brought you to me, or vice versa. I can't talk long, but if you want to find Him, the Devil lives in a pickup that's parked at a rest stop off the westbound side of I-40 in New Mexico, somewhere in the desert between Amarillo and Albuquerque -- you'll find it. The truck you can't miss: it's a beat-to-shit yellow S-10 with a grey camper shell. Decals on the side read "Bonded" and "Insured". The Devil, Him I can't describe as well. It was dark, I only met Him the once, and when I try and remember, all I can see is smoke, teeth, and eyes like cigarette burns. All I can tell you is he was short, smelled like piss, and wore cowboy boots.
It was two in the morning, under a big top of stars. I had stopped over just to stretch my legs and smoke. I rolled up next to the S-10, got out, and that's when He announced Himself with a foul-smelling tubercular cough. He crawled out of the shell, headfirst, like a dog would. Next thing I know, He's right beside me, hissing my name in my ear. He moves in quick. Then we're shaking hands, sharing a beer on his tailgate. I had just sold my soul to Him.
Now, a stranger can know you more intimately than you can know yourself, or so they say. If asked, I'd guess that my weakness is in a lack of foresight, but I might be wrong. All I know is when the day is done, when I've run all I can and I'm staring up at the sky or the ceiling, I see my mistakes, all of them, lined up like Roman columns, tall and white, each holding up my unfailing ability to center myself too much in the "present" as opposed to the future. When I made the deal, I simply did not think things though.
Why did I want do it? I wanted to play the blues, or a mean game of ball, or maybe I wanted a girl, some respect, or money in my pocket. Maybe I was sick in the head. It doesn't matter anymore. Now I've got to move on, and keep moving. The sky is looking green -- is it supposed to storm? Whatever I gained from the deal has lost all its worth, and quick, too. Ebbed away. These days are worrying me. Metal burns my hands now. I no longer walk alongside the road. I blacken fields with my footprints, it drives the livestock around here crazy. I've got to keep moving. I've got to keep moving. There's a hellhound on my trail.
Either way, it's not very nice.
"Then Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost."
Was he being punished? 
We'd run out of space at the war cemetery and we needed to make room for new plots. We were hungry for virgin earth. The war cemetery is bracketed by the interstate to the south and west, while being bordered to the east by the river. So those in charge made the difficult but proper decision to raze the groves along the southern edge of the state-run forest reserve to the north, a centuries-old mixed hardwood pioneer forest, rich in fauna and teeming with native wildlife, the earthy floor of which is known to be carpeted by arrowheads, bison jaws, glass beads and pottery. As expected, when the bulldozers rumbled in, a number of archeological artifacts were upturned along with the earth and trees. One of the more remarkable discoveries was the foundation of a slave cottage. What was left of its masonry was carefully photographed and cataloged by the local historical society, before being broken into thirds and stored in a basement archive.
Anyone could have predicted what would happen next, but no one here thought to take any preventative measures. Our war cemetery is now overrun by rabbits, snakes, moles, field mice, opossums, shrews, beetles of every size and variety, foxes, and squirrels, all former occupants of the forest reserve. Worst of all have been the deer, afflicted as they are by Chronic Wasting Disease, wholly inedible and aggressive by nature. Grieving families have been advised to arm themselves against possible attack. Culling is now scheduled prior to all national holidays. The groundskeeper has a mess on his hands and someone needs to be held accountable.
It was printed on black velvet. Other velvet pictures of animals available: wolves, bears, buffalo, deer, eagles. The only humans printed on velvet were somber Native Americans, silhouetted in front of giant moons. There was a picture of a bald eagle was propped up in the window, upside-down, so the eagle is falling, not flying. I don't think this was intentional.
These were passed along years after he died. No one at the estate sale wanted them -- dusty brass snowflakes, $5, some so small they had to be organized inside gelatin pills. Richard was a watchmaker, a clock collector, an amateur gunsmith, and I remember that his drawings had nice lines. His workshop was in the basement, where the walls were paneled and lined with clocks and heavy cabinets. This is where his collections were stored. Sitting at the kitchen table, you could hear the hourly chorus of chimes and cuckoos echoing down below. He died childless, which is how I came to the gears, or how they came to me, and why I was asked to carry his casket. I was surprised how light it was. Upon receipt, after the deaths of his sister and wife, I wished that I had maybe also inherited one of the single-fire pen guns, a cuckoo clock, or maybe a drawing.
